


At the End of All Things

by TheFutureUnseen



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Freeform, This is not Happy, at all, post 8x05, trying to make sense of the senseless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-04 20:17:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18819961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFutureUnseen/pseuds/TheFutureUnseen
Summary: How many lies has she told herself? How many promises remain unfulfilled?As she looms over the city, perched on a crumbling building, a conqueror, she wonders what it was all for. The fight against Death. The desperation to hold back the Night King... for what? For this?[Post 8x05]A look inside Dany's head for that brief moment when peace seemed possible before everything came crashing down.





	At the End of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> I'm honestly so devastated by the direction GOT is heading. Dany was never my favorite character, but the graceless way they've handled her story arc and the complete 180 from glorification to villainy just reeks of bad writing. I'm sad and upset and honestly just need to process my feelings through writing. So this isn't a fix-it fic. This is me trying to flesh out and understand HOW Dany could make a decision that seemed so out of character.
> 
> If this isn't your cup of tea, then don't read it. Go somewhere else.

The wind whistles in her ears—a high-pitched, keening sound broken only by the harsh beating of her heart. That pounding rhythm of her blood fighting against flesh and bone. A persistent bass-note which twines with the shrill breeze until all she hears are familiar echoes. Voices on the wind.

She hears Jorah whispering of a tender heart. 

She hears Missandei speaking of a great queen.

She hears the cries from Essos, from across the waves, pleading. Mhysa. Mhysa. _Mother_.

And there...

On the shifting breeze...

Rhaegal's piercing cry as the scorpion shot through his neck—the last sound her child had made before he plunged beneath the waves. A sound so like his brother's. That same rending wail which has stalked her dreams and caused her to wake each night drenched in her own sweat.  

Beneath her, Drogon shifts and cracks his jaw wide to release another bellow. The sound reverberates against stone, against the air itself. So thick with fear that it holds its own shape. She can taste it. Fear. Taste it in the metallic burn at the back of her throat. Taste it in the hollow feeling in her chest. Hear it in the desperate shouts from below as the masses plead with their queen, plead to be saved by the bells. 

The whole of King's Landing sprawls before her, more beautiful than she ever imagined. Light glints off the rooftops and makes the whole city glow so brightly that the edges nearly disappear into the ocean. It's breath-taking; this place she has dreamed of for years. This place she thought to call home. How many times has she imagined this moment, taking the Iron Throne? Countless. But never like this. With fear. She had imagined there would righteous justice, purpose, _promise_. She had imagined how she would slowly get to know her people and this land, how she would walk the same halls as the Targaryeans who came before her and finally feel some sense of belonging. Jorah and Greyworm were to be among her Queen's Guard. Missandei by her side, to confide in when things became too difficult. Her friend. Her sister. And, in those quieter moments which seem so long ago now, she had even allowed herself to imagine what it might be like...to have someone, to love someone, to not have to do this _alone_. 

But it was a foolish fantasy. The dreams of a child. A lie. How many lies has she told herself? How many promises remain unfulfilled? As she looms over the city now, perched on a crumbling building, a conqueror, she wonders what it was all for. The fight against Death. The desperation to hold back the Night King... for what? For _this_? 

The city swarms like a hornet's nest, fallen from its perch to break open as easily as a robin's egg. Even from here she can see it. She can see Lannister soldiers fleeing, taking down any civilians in their path. She can see a group of city-dwellers breaking into a shop, plundering anything precious in the midst of the mayhem. She can see Northmen straggling, breaking off from their ranks to chase down unarmed women fleeing for their lives. Dothraki shouting triumphantly as they slice through the crowd. The Unsullied silent in their brutality. And in the middle, a strange stasis where the two armies face off, tension rising with every second. Like a ripple in water—its center completely still but for all the chaos around it. 

Animals. All of them. Desperate to survive.

And here she sits.

No different.

The same blood flowing through her veins. The same desire.

At the end of all things, there is only one truth: the only thing the living care about is living. Not _how_ or _why_ or at what _cost_. Just breathe in, breathe out. Just their own self-interest. The best chance at survival. 

She understands now. Understands Sansa. The North. Cersei. King's Landing. There's no great meaning. Just a battle for breath, for air, for the next desperate inhalation. And even as the Lannister army gives up, as their swords clatter to the ground and the bells start ringing, the desperation never stops. The guards at the Red Keep hack at the crowd still trying to claw their way inside. The bells keep ringing. Discordant. Useless. 

She can see Jon's silver-plated armor glint against the sun. For him, it is over. He cannot see the chaos around him. 

The bells ring.

She remembers thousands falling beneath the army of the dead—people who followed her, who trusted her, who called her mother. Their faces torn apart to reveal that unearthly blue. 

The bells ring.

Each peal an echo of someone she has grieved. Drogo. Her child. Barristan. Viserion. Jorah. Rhaegal. Missandei. All of them...gone. Yet she remains—this twisted, unfamiliar thing. Those who knew her as she had been, who knew the true weight of her heart. Lost. And a piece of that weight was lost with them. A pound of flesh. 

The bells ring.

Surrender. Survival. Anything to take the next breath. To keep the wheel turning. 

The bells ring.

And ring.

And _ring_. 

The sun beats down on her, on the red keep, on the wheel of life. Selfish. Destructive. The nature of mankind. 

She breathes in, lips trembling. Her eyes burn with tears that refuse to fall. And she wishes, for a moment, that the Night King had won, wishes she had died before she saw what she might become. Before those dearest to her were ripped from this life. She wishes more than anything that she had died still believing that life was worth the cost. That there was something noble in surviving. That it wasn't just animal instinct. 

The bells ring.

There is nothing left.

Nothing left inside of her but blood and fire. Blood pounding against flesh and bone. Blood screaming at her to survive, to accept the surrender, to begin again. To live. But...

The fire is stronger. A burning in her belly that won't be extinguished. An ember she has kept at bay for so long, now dosed with Wildfire. Incendiary. Explosive. Like a star, right before it burns out.  

She didn't come to be more of the same. She came to break the wheel. And break it, she will. With fire and blood. 

She will let the fire burn whatever of her is left so that she can become who she was meant to be. A breaker of chains. She will sit on the Iron Throne. Once. As the sun sets. With Westeros wiped clean. And when they come for her...when _Jon Snow_ comes for her, she will let him. She will give him what he wants, his pound of flesh. And it won't hurt, she tells herself, because there won't be anything left. 

Her breath cracks against the vibrating air. A sharp inhalation. She feels Drogon bunch beneath her, then they surge forward as one.

The wind howls. One last sharp cry as the scales beneath her fingertips grow warm. 

She breathes out. One word. One command. And then flames engulf her vision, a blistering, red heat that blooms before her eyes. 

Blood is consumed by Fire.

Death reigns down from the sky.

And Daenerys Targaryen—the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons—feels herself burn right alongside the city. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to cry about how they've completely shattered Dany's character with bullshit, dumbed-down, black/white storytelling then go listen to the song Eight by Sleeping At Last. It will break your heart.


End file.
